Near autumn's end, before the polar night buries everything, a few hours of light a day remain in the village of Sumsky Posad, at one thousand kilometres, North of Saint-Petersburg, in Karelia, by the sea Blanche. It is the Russia of unlimited forests and squares of potatoes. Connected to the rest of the country by a vague muddy road and a piece of railroad, the village lives in a suspended and mysterious time. The inhabitants, strong and inflexible, work quietly: no necessity other than the climatic conditions presses them. It is the happy Russia, still, and cold.